


The Letter

by Margaret Ann (Manderson)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cute, Declarations Of Love, Funny, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Valentine's Day, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6018151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manderson/pseuds/Margaret%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson is attempting to write a love letter to his Valentine, but he’s terrible at it. Seeking help from his friends might not be the best idea he’s ever had, though…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prophetic_Fortune_Cookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prophetic_Fortune_Cookie/gifts).



Phil Coulson, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., threw down his pen in frustration and tore his fingers through his chestnut hair. A shiny lock curled over his high forehead, hanging down into his sea-blue eyes. Surrounding his desk chair were half a dozen balls of crumpled lined paper; others were scattered about the mahogany top. His tie he’d loosened several hours earlier, and now it hung limply down the front of his wrinkled dress shirt. Smears of pen coated the side of his hand, angry and dark. The lamp overhead illuminated everything with a harsh, sickly light, reflecting off the steel walls and causing the mains head to throb even harder. With one arm, he swept the materials from his desk and thunked his forehead down once.

“I’m never going to have this done in time,” he groaned.

On the floor fluttered his most recent attempted. Reluctantly he retrieved it and looked over the blotted draft. His normally precise handwriting was nearly illegible, but he parsed out its meaning based on what he knew he’d just written.

“Hey,” it read, “you’re cool. Want to hang out sometime? Check ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

He crumpled the paper into a tight little wad and thunked his head down on the desk again. “This is stupid. I’m stupid. I’ve been working for seven hours on this, and the best I’ve got sounds like something a middle-school girl would write. I’m an absolute idiot.”

Repeatedly, he thunked his head on the desktop. His ears were ringing so loudly by the time he was down that he didn’t even hear his office door open and feet come tapping in.

“Um, hey,” a voice said, tinged with concern. “Don't do that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Coulson’s head flew up, and he stared at the intruder. The man had curly brown hair tinged with gray and wide, doe-like eyes. The sleeves of his button-down shirt were rolled neatly to the elbows, and his dark jeans looked brand new—likely because they were. Bruce Banner was the only member of S.H.I.E.L.D to have an expense account specifically for clothing.

“Oh, hey, Bruce,” the agent said dejectedly.

“I was wondering if you knew today’s wifi password? I’m doing some research for that science project you have me working on and have to look up something. Tony offered to hack it, but I thought it’d be better to try the official channels first.”

“Huh?” Coulson pawed around for a scrap of paper. He grabbed one from the floor and his ballpoint pen and scribbled down the code. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Bruce turned to leave, then slowly shifted back towards the agent. “Phil, is everything okay?”

Without looking up he said in a monotone, “Yes.”

The agent hesitated. “Are you sure? I’m the king of the ‘fine’ lie, so I understand if you don’t want to talk about it, but...well, I'm here if you change your mind.” He stepped towards the door.

Coulson mumbled, “I don’t know how to write a love letter.”

Bruce blinked rapidly, tilting his head to the side. “Huh?”

“It’s almost Valentine’s Day, and I want to ask my Valentine….well, to  _ be _ my Valentine, but I don’t know how. Everything I write makes me sound like a loser.” The agent looked up, his mussed hair flying around his face in a dark halo. Frustration loomed in his eyes, and he resisted the urge to resume thunking his head.

The other man chewed his lip. “I'm not entirely sure,” He said slowly. “I haven’t really practiced much in that area.”

“Me, neither,” replied Phil. “The last love letter I wrote was to Mandy Wilkerson in seventh grade. She and her little girlfriends all laughed, and the whole school knew about it in less than an hour. It took me until high school to live it down.” The high-pitched laughter echoed in his ears, and he moaned in despair. “I’m never going to be able to do this!”

Bruce stared at Phil in alarm and resisted the urge to flee. Instead he said, “It can’t be  _ that  _ bad.”

“They called me ‘little Philly Failure.’ They had a whole rhyme about it.”

The scientist winced but said, “Well...just be yourself? Say what’s honestly on your mind. Everyone likes it when they’re told the truth.”

Phil reached over and grabbed a blank sheet from the messy pile on the floor. He scribbled down a few lines and shoved the newest draft over to Bruce. “There. Honesty.”

The other man read it quietly, more to himself than aloud. “‘Dear Valentine, I think you’re smart and sexy, and I like that about you. Please be mine. Yours, Phil.’” He looked up and shrugged. “There we go. Not too hard, was it?”

“So it’s okay?” Hope sprang eternal.

He hesitated once more, the n handed the letter back. “Well, it’s straightforward, but it lacks a certain...I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his head, uncertain. “I’m not really the best one to be asking about this, Phil. I’m sorry.”

The agent sighed and shrank back into himself. “Oh…”

“Why don’t you ask Tony?” He’s way better at this kind of stuff. He has girls throwing themselves at him. Even if he doesn’t usually write them letters, I’m sure he could give you some tips.”

Phil nodded. The words took a minute to penetrate the dejected funk of his brain, but then he sprang from the chair as if pricked by a needle. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. He grabbed his pen and the paper he’d drafted and dashed out of his office. Over his shoulder he called, “Thanks, Banner!”

Tony Stark stood in one of his labs wearing his favorite vintage band t-shirt and raggedy jeans. The holes in the knees had been professionally sliced ,and the hems had been stepped on just enough to give them the perfect amount of wear. His hair was slicked forward smoothly, and the front was spiked up in a retro-90’s look. While it wasn’t something Phil would consider even under threat of death, somehow the billionaire made it work. He knew full-well that the ensemble cost more than his entire wardrobe, between the cost of the clothes and hair product. It all came out-of-pocket, too; unlike his bro, Bruce, Tony didn’t have an expense account with S.H.I.E.L.D.

He looked up from his computer screen at the disheveled agent and said, “Where’s the fire?”

“I need your help,” puffed Phil, leaning against the table.

“Slow down. Way you’re breathing makes me wonder what kind of regimen they have you guys on.” He popped a grape into his mouth and minimized all but the data readouts on his screens. “What kind of help do you need?”

Phil swallowed hard and said, “I’m writing a love letter, but I’ve got nothing. I know you’re good with the ladies, so I thought you might have some tips.” He passed over his sheet of paper and attempted to comb his hair back into some semblance of order.

Tony looked over the sheet and grimaced. “Straight-forward approach, but it lacks poetry.”

“‘Poetry’?” He arched a brow. “I wouldn’t take you for the romantic type, Stark.”

“Oh, no. Definitely not,” replied the billionaire with a grin. “I don’t usually make my confessions in written form, either. Ever since...Pepper and I got together, I haven’t had to do any pursuing, as it were. But before that it was more of a ‘my place or yours?’ kind of thing.” He set the paper down on the table and leaned over it, rubbing his goatee.

“Just like that? ‘My place or yours?’ and you’d be done?” Phil’s head whirred at this, imagining the ease of the transaction: sidling up to his crush in a bar; offering the purchase of an alcoholic beverage; leaving hours later, arm in arm, after sparkling, scintillating conversation. The movies—well, and Stark’s debonaire confidence—made it look so easy. The agent knew enough of his own personality that he’d be a stammering wreck in the same situation.

“Playboy, remember?” Tony’s voice penetrated Phil’s reverie.  “But you could try a little euphemism. Don’t beat around the bush, necessarily, but you can be flirty. Talk about what you’d like to do with her if she goes out with you. Show your playful side so it doesn’t sound so much like a form letter or a robot. You’re not Jarvis, after all.

“Thank you, sir,” the automated voice of Tony’s computer butler said, a note of sarcasm therein.

Tony ignored the tone and the blush painting Phil’s cheeks. “Try it out.” He slid the paper over.

Phil uncapped his pen, lost in thought. After a moment he scribbled down a draft and slid it back.

Tony picked it up, flapped it once for dramatic effect, and read it aloud. “‘Hey there, sexy. If you say you’ll be my Valentine, I’ll keep you busy all night long, if you know what I mean. I’ve been having a hard time keeping my eyes off of you, so be cool and ignore the binoculars. I like your wallpaper, by the way. It’ be nice to see it up close. Let me know. Yours, Phil.’”

It was several long minutes before Phil worked up the nerves to break the silence. “Well? What do you think?”

Tony handed the paper back, his face carefully blank. “Well...I think it’s better. Definitely better.”

“But?” Dejection crept back into his voice.

“Maybe it’s a little too much. Too much creepy stalker and not enough Rico Suave. But hey,” he clapped his friend on the shoulder “you’ll get it.  _ Caves of Steel  _ wasn’t written in a day!”

“I guess…” Phil folded the letter and shoved it in his pocket. He trudged towards the door.

Just before he stepped into the hallway, he heard Tony mutter, “Did I really sound like that when I was picking up chicks? Jarvis, remind me to ask Pepper later.”

“Yes, sir.”

The hallways were wide and full of other agents scurrying back and forth on important errands. They echoed with the sounds of conversation and shoe heels clicking on the marble floors. In an employee lounge someone had made popcorn, the buttery-burnt scent lingering in the air. Passing people greeted Phil warmly, but he didn’t respond to even the most friendly of overtures. Sadness clouded his head, a heavy weight pressing down on his shoulders. Mandy’s cruel taunts rang in his ears, and they were joined now by the cringing faces of two of his favorite coworkers. _ I really am a loser _ , he thought.

So immersed in his head was he that he didn’t notice when he slammed into a soft, female form. With heavy lids he looked up from his scuffed wingtips. Before him stood a pair of familiar faces: one open and friendly, marked by a slightly crooked nose; the other pointed like a cat’s, framed with coppery curls. Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, archer and spy,  Hawkeye and Black Widow. “Sorry,” he said, taking a step back from them.

“It’s fine. Are you okay?” asked Natasha, adjusting her silky blouse. 

Before Phil could respond, he found himself whisked away to the corner of the cafeteria. Clint set down a cup of coffee in front of him, and Natasha folded her hands primly on the table. “Tell us what’s going on. Has someone been compromised?” the archer asked. “Need us to beat anyone up? Extract anyone?”

“No…” the agent sighed and passed over the now-crumpled draft he’d composed with Tony. “It’s Valentine’s day, and I can’t come up with the perfect way to tell my crush how I feel.”

The others scanned the paper. To their credit, neither one burst out laughing or cringed too badly, though Clint fought the laughter bubbling in his stomach. Natasha, though, was far more practiced in the art of keeping her cool, and she just shrugged. “It’s a little hokey and sort of creepy, but I know you can improve on it if you try.”

“That’s just it. I have tried. This is probably my thousandth time rewriting it, and every attempt is worse than the last. I either sound like a moron or a freak. I’m never going to be able to do this.” He got in one good head-to-table thunk before Natasha told him to stop.

“You’ve gotten help, though, right?” asked Clint.

“Sort of. Bruce and Tony tried.”

Lips twisted, he replied, “That explains a lot.”

“Not better.” Phil looked up at Natasha, ignoring the archer’s grin. “Just tell me what I should write. You’re a hot person. You’ve probably gotten dozens of love letters from people. What do they all say?”

An odd look crossed her face, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Each letter should be uniquely tailored to the recipient. Otherwise you may as well go down to the drugstore and buy a greeting card.”

“No, I’m being serious,” protested the agent. “Maybe just three things they had in common. Did they all ask you to go out with them? Were they all sincere? Was there a special paper people wrote on? What?”

Natasha pursed her lips and said, “I—”

“Just tell me so I can write my letter!” Desperately he reached for her hand.

Stiffly the spy stood and walked to the door, unhappiness in her eyes.

“Dude,” Clint said once she was out of earshot. “Not cool.”

“What?” Phil stared at the archer, whose arms were crossed and eyes narrowed. “What did I do?”

“She’s never gotten a letter except when she’s undercover.”

“So?” Phil leaned forward in his hard, steel chair. “She’s gotten letters before.”

“So it’s never been when she’s being herself. They’re always to one of the personas she creates to get whatever information S.H.I.E.L.D. is after at the moment, or the Russians before she joined us. They’re never actually about _ her _ .”

“Oh.” Guilt washed over Phil, and he resisted the urge to resume thunking his head. “What do I do?”

“Eh, you can track her down later and apologize. Right now, though, we need to get you through your own ordeal.” Clint snatched the paper from the tabletop and scanned it again. “All right, yeah. The basic idea is decent. You were saying what kind of stuff you’d like to do with your crush, right? So telling her you’d like to hang out is fine. Skip anything that comes off like a stalker, though. What sorts of things do you want to do with her? Where would you take her on a date?”

Phil chewed his lip, deep in thought. He imagined a picnic by a lake, sitting on a checkered blanket and eating finger sandwiches and drinking wine; sailing through the Chesapeake on a bright summer day, adjusting the sails on an eighteen-footer, dropping anchor in the evening and watching the sun set over blue-green waters; swing dancing at a fancy restaurant between courses, then holding each other close, cheek-to-cheek, when the music slowed. Rock-climbing, kayaking, feeding each other Junior Mints at a movie premiere. Anything with his beloved at his side.

Clint noted the agent’s sappy smile and handed him the paper. “Write it down. And be romantic. Chicks dig romance.”

Phil scribbled for a solid two minutes before he stopped, shaking out his hand. He recapped his pen and handed the paper over. “Tell me it’s good enough now.”

The archer scanned the paper, scratching at his cheek idly as he did so. “‘Dear one, I think you’re more amazing than anyone else on the planet. I can’t imagine being happier than with you, sitting on the grass watching the sun set over the Bay. Come away with me and make me the happiest man in the world. Love, Phil.’” Clint set the paper down.

“Well?” he asked anxiously.

“Not bad. Really good, in fact. I think this could definitely work.”

A brilliant grin broke across Phil’s face, lighting him up. “Awesome! Now I’ll just go copy it and send it off.”

“Sounds good. And don’t forget to apologize to Nat later, too.” Clint smiled back with self-satisfaction.

“I will. Right after I finish.” An elated Phil Coulson walked out of the cafeteria.

Later, though, he had sunk back into his depressive funk. His hand was greasy with smeared ink, dozens of colors blending into a sickly gray on the side of his hand. Even more scraps of paper littered his office, each one a different color and size and texture. He’d opened his shirt at the neck and rolled his sleeves to the elbows, opened and shut his window a dozen times, and his shoes and socks were kicked to opposite corners in an attempt to get comfortable enough to compose a perfect final draft. Nothing seemed to be helping, though; no matter what he tried, he’d spell something wrong, blot the ink, or skip a word from his first draft. Mandy’s voice in his head mocked his incompetence, and he was ready to just pull out his laptop and email the note to its intended recipient, as cold and impersonal as that would be.

He was just about to stand and start pacing when his door flew open and an enraged blond entered, cape billowing behind him, followed by a mousy-looking secretary an in rumpled suit. “Phil, son of Coul, I have need of you!”

“What is it now, Thor?” asked the agent wearily.

The man waved a sheaf of papers in front of Phil’s face. “I have submitted this report on the doings of my brother, Loki, yet I have been told by this tiny man here—” he gestured towards the secretary, “—that it must needs be typed on one of your electronic devices!”

Phil looked over at the other man, who cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I told Mr. Odinsson we don’t accept handwritten documents. Everything needs to be filed electronically so it can be uploaded to the databanks. We stopped accepting handwritten documents back in the seventies. I offered to set Mr. Odinsson up with a computer, or even a dictation program, but he’s refusing.”

His ears pricked up, and he held out his hand across his desk. “Let me see those,” he said.

Thor passed over the sheaf of parchment, crossing his arms over his chest, and Phil scanned the report. It was the latest update on how Loki was still at large, but seemed to still be lying low. The only recent havoc in the other eight realms was local trouble. But that wasn’t the part Phil was interested in. Instead, he was entranced by the elegance of the handwriting, the perfection of each curve, the way each letter was exactly formed, but with such care that they were all unique, rather than uniform like a font. Phil looked up and said, “I thought you wrote in runes on Asgard.”

Thor shrugged. “Is it not custom to learn the letters of foreign tongues on Midgard when you wish to converse?”

He nodded slowly, and turned towards the secretary. “Thank you. I’ll see that this is taken care of.” The secretary scurried away, and Phil set the parchment aside. “Thor, I have a job for you.”

“Whatever you need will I do as I am able.”

The agent took the rough draft of his letter, tore off the version he’d written with Clint, and handed it to the Asgardian. “I need you to handwrite a perfect copy of this for me. I’ll get your report typed in the meantime.”

Thor scanned the paper, mouthing the words as he read them. When he finished, he smile hugely at Phil. “You have penned a lovely little romance here, son of Coul. I applaud your efforts mightily. Any maid would be lucky to receive such sweet musings.”

“Thanks,” replied Phil, genuinely touched. “Is there anything I should change?”

“I see a few words here and there that may benefit from one of your Midgardian thesauruses, but overall I applaud your attempt.” He caught the glint in Phil’s eye and added, “As I am in practice writing such things weekly to my beloved Jane, should you wish it, I would gladly fix your letter for you.”

Slowly Phil pushed himself away from his desk. He stepped around the mahogany tabletop and stood before the broad-chested demigod. For a long moment he stood silently, looking up into Thor’s stormy blue eyes. Then, suddenly, he threw his arms around his waist. “Thank you,” he said.

After an awkward moment, Thor patted Phil’s back lightly. “Think nothing of it,” he replied. Then, “Son of Coul, are you...crying?”

The agent stepped back and shook his head. “It’s been a long day,” he deflected. He sat back down and picked up the sheaf of parchment. “I’ll see that these get typed up for you. When you’re done with the letter, bring it back here and I’ll deliver it.”

“It shall be done.” Thor left.

The door closed behind him, and Phil leaned back in his chair. For the first time that day, he breathed.

 

**—————**

 

Bouquets of flowers and dozens of stuffed animals littered every available surface of the chamber, and cellophane-wrapped boxes of chocolates and candies had been sorted on the desk in the corner. A half-dozen balloons hovered around the ceiling, while packages and gift bags lined the walls. A pile of cards and letters had been left on the bed. Seeing the fresh assortment of Valentine’s Day paraphernalia, Steve Rogers’ heart sank. He ran his fingers through his sandy hair, shrugged off his leather jacket, and grabbed his wastepaper basket.

As he began opening the mail, he reflected that this wasn’t nearly as bad as Christmas had been. The sweets he could hand out to friends, since they were all wrapped. The stuffed animals could go to the children’s hospitals, regardless of whether or not he removed the plush hearts each one seemed to hold. The flowers he’d take to the VA or the nursing home; they always appreciated them there, and it made the building a little more cheerful. The letters, though...he hated those. He felt bad not replying, but there was no way he could.  _ It’s funny _ , he mused as he slid his pocket knife through the flap of the first card.  _ When I was a kid, I would’ve killed for this much adoration. All it took for me to become popular was losing everything I cared about _ . The sentiment brought a pang to his heart, and he tossed the first card and its envelope into the basket.

An hour or so later he’d made it to the bottom of the pile, luckily. Most fell into his standard categories: rapturous gushing, Hallmark-level drivel, and downright disturbing. He kept those to share with the PR manager he’d been assigned, so the writers could be catalogued in the S.H.I.E.L.D. database. The final letter on the pile awaited him, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the thought.

Rather than a paper envelope like the others, this letter was written on heavyweight parchment, folded and sealed with a blob of wax pressed with a S.H.I.E.L.D. logo. Inwardly, Steve groaned. He hated getting these. It made things awkward when he had to interact with all of the agents, and they always so earnestly sought a reply. He hated seeing their eyes dim when he turned them down. They always wanted what he wasn’t prepared to give.

Carefully he broke the wax seal and scanned the page. 

_ Costly number, _

_ Ninth letter muse thou art further shocking comparatively somebody in contact with definite article planet. Ninth letter negative tin presuppose creature buoyant comparatively escorted by thee, sedentarily in contact with definite article sod peering at definite article warmth lie above definite article large body of water. Follow off along personal pronoun coordinating conjunction force personal pronoun definite article jocular personage during definite article sphere.  _

_ Worship, Phil. _

Blinking, Steve reread the message. His forehead wrinkled as he tried to figure out what it said--the letters were clear enough, of course, but the meaning...it was like someone had translated it from a foreign language. He shook his head and tossed it aside. It could wait until morning.

He put the wastepaper basket back in its corner, kicked off his boots, and got into bed. Relief washed over him as he turned out the light, knowing this was the last annoying gift-day until July.


End file.
